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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24680614">(Love Is Like A) Snake Tattoo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/levnons/pseuds/levnons'>levnons</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Swap, But only a smidge of Angst, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Kissing, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Tattoos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:06:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,545</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24680614</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/levnons/pseuds/levnons</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have a tattoo of a snake,” Crowley said, flatly.</p><p>Aziraphale wrung his hands, and the drink beside him replenished with the scent of something akin to paint thinner. </p><p>“Er. ‘A’ would imply one, singular tattoo.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>214</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(Love Is Like A) Snake Tattoo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale’s hands were soft. Rubbing them together, twisting his fingers, and fidgeting in any feasible, hand-like-way, had told him enough. Smooth and gentle, unruffled by six thousand years of living. They also smelt of jasmine. A subtle smell that usually wafted by Crowley’s nose as Aziraphale brushed by, or sunk into the Bentley’s passenger seat.</p><p>His softness captured every bit of skin, from the tips of his fingers to the edge of his shoulders, which Crowley had, very un-creepily, shed of its usual cover.</p><p>There’s no just in proclaiming to the world that it was still there because of a series of very, very fortunate events. An odd, ineffable plan that God had, very possibly, planned it as. Or, knew it to be. It was more the events that mattered. The way it went. It didn’t <em>feel </em>meddled in. A collective train of happenings that occurred on their own volition, like God had twisted a toy car and left it to drive and drive and drive. She very well likely knew exactly what the outcome was going to be, but She didn’t <em>make </em>it happen. A thought that had settled happily in Crowleys softer, rounder stomach- the one he wanted to touch with his own hands, the gangly and awkward ones, the ones that lacked the solidity and softness of Aziraphale’s.</p><p>It was seven o’clock in the morning, past the hour Crowley usually dedicated to throwing his alarm at the wall. More important matters were at hand, like the mirror in front of him, ornate and black, and pulled specially from the ‘for Aziraphale’ portion of his powers. He had an hour to make it to the park, and he was using it to snoop.</p><p>Aziraphale had freckles. His wrists were, somehow, brushed faintly with swaths of the things, pleasantly mottled along the smooth stretch of skin.</p><p>He twisted his sleeves up, shoulders rolling uncomfortably, and paused.</p><p>A silky tease of ink, dark against pale, twisted along the incline of Aziraphale’s forearm. Crowley hissed softly as he tugged the fabric up further.</p><p>It was a snake.</p><p>A long one, coiled and looped from top to bottom, a menace of black and red scales that twirled elegantly up towards Aziraphale’s elbow. The eyes were narrowed, nocturnal and peering up his bicep.</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p>He ran a thumb over the tail, flicking just under his wrist, and blew out a shaky breath.</p><p>
  <em>Git.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Pulling a fast one over four Archangels felt a bit like dreaming. And dreaming felt like a fragmented vision of tangible illegitimacies. The breath of fire had felt particularly invigorating, like cracking his back in the morning, or stretching in a patch of sunlight.</p><p>It was a good day.</p><p>And Aziraphale was in a terrific mood.</p><p>They dined at the Ritz, returned to the bookshop, pulled out a number of alcoholic drinks, along with ice and lemons, an Indian board-game, and a trashy wig that, after about fifteen glasses of wine, Crowley had proudly adorned. It was past three AM, past the corrosive hour of traffic, or what Crowley thought was a reasonable hour to sleep, and they were still basking in each other’s company. Without fear, Crowley would add smugly. Not even a wriggle.</p><p>There were wriggles of anxiety, though. For different reasons.</p><p>Aziraphale handed him a drink with an umbrella in it, whistling something that Crowley thought sounded suspiciously like ‘The Bitch is Back’.</p><p>“I think that,” Aziraphale said, slurring slightly, “what you’re claiming,” he pressed a hand to his chest, the same chest Crowley had smoothed his hands over and ogled, “is actually the plot of a book.”</p><p>Crowley spluttered, and half his drink slopped out of his glass. It disappeared before it hit the couch. “Is’ history.”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. “Australia did not get invaded in the 90s.”</p><p>“Did,” Crowley insisted, “and tha’ group of teenagers went into the bush an’ blew up the bridge. Then the girl drove around in the- oh.”</p><p>Aziraphale snickered.</p><p>Crowley muttered into his drink, trying to remember the last time he’d read those blasted books, and how on Earth Aziraphale knew of their existence, let alone the plot.</p><p>“Thought it would be a bit too violent for your taste, angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale shrugged. “Was there for a bit, students all complainin’ about reading them. Gave em’ a go."</p><p>Crowley hummed distastefully.</p><p>A soft hand clasped over Crowley’s knee, and Aziraphale’s warmth settled closer. He missed the startled squeak that Crowley covered with a chocked cough. Red cheeks hid behind strands of fake, pink hair.</p><p>“Well,” Aziraphale beamed, and sobered himself up a bit for the sake of being able to consume more alcohol without it churning uncomfortably in the limited confines of his stomach, “I think we ought to play another.”</p><p>Crowley groaned.</p><p>And then, Aziraphale, in a drunken stupour, with curly hair fluffed right up and his lips rosy, clumsily pulled up the sleeves of his shirt.</p><p>Crowley hadn’t been keen on bringing up the tattoo. Even if the curiosity was burning. The image of blue eyes boring into him, a perfect eyebrow raising, and Aziraphale’s voice, soft and gentle, easing him through an ‘amusing’ misunderstanding, burnt a hole right through his chest.</p><p>
  <em>‘Why would a tattoo that, given by the red underbelly- is definitely you, mean anything along the lines of my eternal love? Ha.’</em>
</p><p>Crowley shuddered.</p><p>“Are you alright, my dear?”</p><p>“Yes,” Crowley said automatically, voice cracking, “drink is strong, is all.”</p><p>Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. His sleeves hadn’t reached his elbows yet, shielding the flashes of black that greeted the room with each shift of his arms as he reset the board for another game of Pachisi.</p><p>Crowley was cheating this time. (Winning, in his mind, was dutiful through both merit and wile). He had also yet to win through honesty, or any other equitable means.</p><p>“Bet <em>you’re </em>cheating,” he grumbled, eyes boring into the colourful cloth, painfully avoiding the wide forearms settling next to his own, the bit of ink peaking out, teasing him, mocking his-</p><p>“Really, Crowley-“</p><p>“I saw it,” Crowley blurted, and immediately sunk into the couch, scowling, the tips of his ears burning.</p><p>Aziraphale blinked owlishly at him.</p><p>“Saw what, darling?”</p><p>
  <em>Darling.</em>
</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>Crowley buried his face in his hands.</p><p>“Your bloody arm, Aziraphale.”</p><p>Go- Jesus, it was impossible to flush from his mind. His own wriggly, squirmy body painted so beautifully on the skin- the corporation- the physical embodiment of a holy, celestial being of Her creation. It felt like a bonfire, the tantalising heat, craving the warmth, but as soon as you leaned too close it was unbearable, driven away by something so fucking beautiful and big and-</p><p>Crowley huffed a breath out through his nose.</p><p>Aziraphale tugged down his sleeves, lips twisted into a half grimace.</p><p>“You have a tattoo of a snake,” Crowley said, flatly.</p><p>Aziraphale wrung his hands, and the drink beside him replenished with a harsh whiff of paint thinner.</p><p>“Er. ‘A’ would imply one<em> singular</em> tattoo.”</p><p>Crowley blinked very fast, consecutively, and his fingers twitched. He swung a hand over the couch they were sharing, hand brushing against Aziraphale’s curls.</p><p>Softer, somehow, when it was his own finger’s touching them.</p><p>“Are they random, er, snakes?” Crowley asked, casually.</p><p>Aziraphale’s expression softened.</p><p>“No. Not at all.” He smiled weakly. “I don’t know many snakes.”</p><p>The thought of Aziraphale spending time with other snakes, or even admiring them, sent a spike of irrational jealously winding through his gut. But it wasn’t like other snakes made good, cultured conversation partners, at least not to other non-snakes. They couldn’t drink wine, either. They didn’t even have thumbs to pick up pastries, or rare books, as presents.</p><p>Crowley scoffed.</p><p>He was the supreme snake. The original snake. Still had the bloody eyes, and tongue, to show for it.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, and slipped his hand back over Crowley’s knee. “Of course, dear.”</p><p>Crowley groaned. “That wasn’t- this isn’t how this is supposed to go.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s grip loosened. “Oh.”</p><p>“No,” Crowley hurried to say, jerking forward and knocking the back of Aziraphale’s head with his arm, still stretched across the back of the lounge, “whoops, sorry- I mean, obviously I’m the only snake, and I’m <em>the snake</em>, but I, you know, had a plan.”</p><p>He coughed into his armpit, voice low. “A romantic plan.”<br/>
<br/>
Aziraphale beamed. He sunk back into Crowley’s grasp, like it was natural, like they were the standard minority couple breaking down the walls of heartbreak, and swooned low in his throat. “<em>Romance.”</em></p><p>Crowley sniffed. “So, yeah. I feel the same. Obviously.”</p><p>He’d planned for more chocolates, maybe a romantic dinner, with candles he’d deny ever placing, and an incredibly rare book that he would have no idea how got into the shelves lining the backroom.</p><p>Tomorrow, maybe.</p><p>They had time.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled. He wove his fingers through the hand Crowley was dangling over his shoulder, and kissed the knuckles softly. “Splendid.”</p><p>Crowley cleared his throat.</p><p>“So, where’s the other one?”<br/>
<br/>
“The other what?”</p><p>“The other tattoo.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s cheeks spotted with colour. “Oh.” He glanced at his lap, gaze wandering lower, teeth worming away at his bottom lip.</p><p>Crowley choked on his own spit.</p><p>“You’re taking the piss, angel.”</p><p>“Well, it’s more like I’m taking the snake, to put it delicately.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://levnons.tumblr.com">come talk to me on Tumblr</a> :)</p><p>Title is a play on from '(Love Is Like A) Heatwave' by Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. </p><p>The sentence "breaking down the walls of heartbreak" is from the song 'breaking down the walls of heartbreak' by Dexys Midnight  Runners.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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